Rosary
by Dollhousesareforwhimps
Summary: Snipes comes across a piece of Racetrack's past on a search for cigars. And Race learns what it means to accept the unacceptable. Rated for mild violence and language
1. Crosses and Slurs

Alright, this is my first Newsies fic ever. I'm fairly new at this style of writing, but bear with me. I hope I get all the characters right!

Newsies does not belong to me, but rather Disney. I believe Racetrack, however, will forever be owned by the brilliant Max Casella.

* * *

"Hey, what's dis, Race?" Snipes asked one night, holding up a small cross on a beaded chain.

Race grabbed it from him quickly, "Nuttin' you should be fingerin', dat's what," he grumbled through his cigar. His raised voice caused a few of the boys to stop what they had been doing and look over at them, the prospect of a fight too entertaining to ignore. Snipeshooter and Racetrack were always going at it, usually over Snipes snooping around Race's things, presumably to uncover a cigar.

"Hey! I wasn't done lookin' at dat! Me mudda had one o' dose," Snipes said angrily, attempting to take it back from Race. Race stood up from his solitaire game and put his face dangerously close to Snipes. Race was small for his age but Snipes was smaller.

"Yea? So did mine," he shouted and stuffed the rosary in the pocket of his waistcoat. Snipes uttered some small sounds of protest but Race ignored him. He walked over to the table and began to deal a new solitaire hand. Snipes lingered a moment, than shrugged and walked back over to the bedside table he and Race shared, continuing his search for one of Racetrack's elusive cigars. A few boys sniggered at the peculiar spat, over a crucifix of all things. If there was anything a newsie wasn't, it was devout. All the lying, coercing and soaking in the job description made that impossible. Not to mention the origin of Race's name. None of them were sure, but they figured the church might not be in favor of gambling.

The fight was forgotten in a matter of minutes when another louder and more understandable fight about selling spots broke out across the room. Race sighed; he had lost for the third time in a row. With quick movements his placed his deck back inside their box and put it in his side pocket. With a quick look around, he edged his way toward the door. Blink saw him leaving and shouted to him, "Race! Where ya goin'?"

Race shushed him quickly and punched his shoulder. "Be quiet, will ya? There's a poker game over at Tibby's later tonight. From what I hea' it's got some good money in it." Blink nodded. Jack had a rule about being out of the lodging house after curfew, but that rule was often ignored. "Leave da window open for me, will ya?"

"Sure thing, Race" Blink said, "When do you think you'll be back? It's kind of cold tonight. I don't know how long I'll be able to keep Jack from shuttin' it."

"Don't worry 'bout it," Race shrugged. Blink seemed satisfied, despite Race's obvious evasion. "See ya, Blink"

"See ya, Race."

* * *

Racetrack wandered down the street, his hand in his pocket, entwining his fingers with the beaded chain of the rosary. It had been a nervous habit of his when he had first started out life on the streets. He remembered getting jumped by a few thugs when he was thirteen. After the fight, he had lain in an alley, barely conscious. When Jack and Skittery found him, Race had the chain tightly wrapped around the hand that hadn't been broken in the fight. They took him back to the lodging house and paid the two cents for his accommodations. While his hand healed, Jack took it upon himself to show him the ropes. He lent Race 50 cents, more money than Race had held in a long time, to afford papes and his stay at Kloppman's. Whenever he got in trouble with Rat (at the time the leader of the Manhattan territory was a boy by the name of Rat Stevens), Jack would step in to defend him. The Cowboy even taught Race how to gamble, although Race quickly discovered his natural talent and began training himself up on odds, cards and, most notably, horses.

Racetrack used to carry the rosary with him at all times. It would spend the day in his vest pocket along with his pocket watch. Then, one day, he forgot to bring it along on his rounds. Then one day became two, or three. And eventually the tarnished relic from his past found it's new home in Race's drawer. Race hadn't given it a thought for months and it probably would have stayed that way, had Snipeshooter not found it. It made him feel a little sick. This used to be his whole world, his excuse for stealing food, his tie to his past. And he had forgotten about it.

The card game at Tibby's hadn't been a lie, although the part about good money had been. He hadn't planned on actually going, 'but maybe I should,' he thought to himself, 'clear my head.'

He didn't get very far. To get to Tibby's from the lodging house Race needed to pass Newspaper Row. He didn't even think about the prospect of someone being there. Namely, Oscar and Morris, not to mention a few more or Pulitzer's muscle.

"Well, well, well, boys. Look who we gots 'ere," Oscar said unpleasantly. Race inwardly groaned, but grinned widely at the scabs nonetheless.

"Hiya, boys. And what would you fine gentlemen be doin' on dis side of town?" Race asked pleasantly, but not without a hint of sarcasm.

"Why if it isn't the little wop with da big mouth," Oscar continued. Race's brow furrowed at the word 'wop', but he swallowed any retort he might have been able to throw at them. He wasn't stupid.

"Yeah, I tink I remember dis kid!" Another laughed. "What's your name? Higgins, right?" Race didn't move.

"Yeah, Racetrack Higgins," Morris confirmed. The scabs moved in closer, pinning him against a shop front.

"Pretty funny name for a wop," a large one said maliciously, "Ya sure ya ain't a mick instead?" Racetrack balled his fists angrily. He could taste blood from his lip where he had broken the skin.

"I'd ratha' be both a dose 'tings 'dan wake up wit' your ugly puss ev'ryday!" His accent was becoming thicker, something that only happened if he was either drunk or in the mood to soak somebody.

The scabs didn't waste any time. With surprising quickness, two of them grabbed his arms and pushed him up against the wall. Morris wore a sadistic smile as he cracked his knuckles. Race struggled. He was a fighter, always had been, but it was all in vain. The lugs had something he didn't: muscle. Well, that and a few inches.

Oscar leaned in so close to Race's face, he could smell the hotdog he had eaten for dinner. Smirking like a hungry crocodile, he tussled Race's hair, "Ya know, you're a bit too greasy ta be only half wop." He shared a joking glance with his brother before continuing, "But I suppose you know how wop whores are. Maybe you're Mama was havin' some fun with an organ grinder, or sumthin'."

Something snapped in Race. With a roar of sheer rage, he flailed and kicked at the boys that held him down. Taken by surprise, Oscar, Morris and a third boy stepped back. The other two who were holding him did nothing for a minute. Then, with a resounding crack, the tallest one punched Race square in the ribs. Then again. And again. Soon, they didn't even need to hold Race to keep him still. The hits had taken both his energy and his ability to breathe.

He was a pathetic sight, crumpled on the ground with his arms wrapped around his chest. The five boys stood over him and laughed. Oscar continued to weave his story about Race's family history as they kicked him. He would tell him who his mother had been giving it to on the side or how much his father would drink. Slowly, the boy ceased to feel the pain of the kicks and the faces of his tormentors became foggy. The last thing he heard before losing conciseness was, "Too bad ya don't have a sista', Higgins, she probably would have satisfied all of us for two bits."

* * *

I know this was a very dark prologue to what I hope will be an interesting and, dare I say it, uplifting story at some point. But you know what they always say. Things have to get worse before they get better.

Also, a note on the term 'wop': It is an extremely degrading slur for one of Italian heritage that was used in the Newsies-era. I'm sure most of you knew that already, and those you didn't probably could have figured it out from context. But for any who didn't, there you go!

Please review…Race could really use some ego boosting right now.

Next time: The next morning, Blink is worried when Race fails to show up at the lodging house.


	2. Waiting for Race

Blink chewed on his thumbnail anxiously. The black night sky had already begun to fade into a pale blue and there had still been no sign of Racetrack. There was no way that poker game could still be going on. Tibby's closed at midnight, every night. And Blink didn't think the tough old bird was going to make an exception for a group of ragtag gamblers, no matter how big the pot.

The blonde boy looked over to his right. Jack appeared to be sleeping soundly enough. Blink had to tell him about Race's latest cash endeavor once Kloppman had announced lights out and the diminutive Italian was nowhere to be found. Jack had taken it surprisingly well. Then again, if he blew his top every time Race slipped out after curfew he'd have no energy left to hawk headlines every day.

'What on earth is keepin' dat bum.' Blink mumbled to himself, not without a twinge of worry. If it had been anyone else he wouldn't have been as nervous, but Race was a different story. He had made a bit of a name for himself among gambling circles, and more than a few of the men he played with didn't appreciate being cleaned out by a sixteen year old. Jack had often joked about Race meeting his demise with a royal flush in hand, to which Race would grin and reply, "Ise wouldn't have it any other way."

Blink sat up a bit in his bed and surveyed the bunkhouse. The only time you could truly read another person was when they were sleeping. All the poker faces and fake smiles that were required among boys of their class would vanish, leaving behind whatever it was they were hiding. To his right he could see Mush sleeping soundly, his characteristic grin plastered across his face. If anyone was as honest awake as he was at night, it was Mush. Blink couldn't help but smile and muse what girl he might be dreaming about this time.

Jack was sleeping too, but his face lacked the dream filled ecstasy Mush wore. Looking more dead than alive, his eyebrows were only slightly knit together. Like he had just inhaled something unpleasant or been kicked in the same place as an old scar. Blink frowned. He wasn't too eager to guess what Jack was thinking about.

Blink turned a little to the left. Skittery's eyelids were fluttering slightly. Blink briefly thought he might be waking up but that was quickly dispelled by a high pitched, whiny snore. Blink chuckled and willed himself to remember that. Pushing Skitt's buttons was always good for a laugh.

Blink's good eye drifted over to Bumlets and Snipeshooters bunk. Bumlets was sprawled out, as usual. But Snipes was turning and shifting uncomfortably. Blink furrowed his brow. Snipeshooter always slept like a rock.

With a huge sigh, Snipes rolled onto his back. Blink could now see the whites of his eyes, confirming his suspicions. He ran his thumb underneath the strap of his eye patch. No one in the lodging house was ever up this early without a reason. In the back of his mind, Blink wondered if their reasons were the same.

A loud creak from the stairs broke Blink out of reverie. He saw Snipes visibly jump, then pull the covers over himself and feign sleep. Blink did the same. The last thing he wanted was for the rest of the boys asking questions, thinking he'd been getting soft, worrying over someone like Race. _He'll be at the distribution offices,_ Blink thought casually. _Where else would he be?_

"Goodmornin' boys! Time ta carry the banna'!" Kloppman announced from thedoorway.Blink groaned along with the rest of the lodging house. After a minute or so, Jack walked over to him and wordlessly gestured towards Race's empty bunk. Blink just shrugged.

"Well, alright then," Jack sighed deeply, then headed over to the washroom. Blink followed, casting a sideways glance at Snipeshooter as he passed.

* * *

Sorry about the shortness! I was planning to merge this with the next chapter, but I couldn't get the transition right. I'm kind of crappy at writing Blink. But I like him so much I couldn't help but use him. I hope its good enough! 


	3. Unfortunate Discovery

The only ones on the street when Jack stepped out of the lodging house were a few dawdling factory workers and a street sweeper. But the sky was clear and the air was much warmer than the night before, Jack smiled, that meant good selling.

The walk to the distribution offices was pleasant. Mush provided a few entertaining, although obviously fabricated, stories about various evening exploits with the opposite sex. If anyone noticed Race was missing, they weren't questioning it. Race was known to disappear for days at a time. In fact, Jack had toyed with the idea that this incident was just another one of Race's vanishing acts. But Race had never deliberately told someone to wait up for him if he had no intention of coming back. And the way Blink told it, that's exactly what Race had done.

As the ragtag group neared the distribution offices, Jack peered over the wrought iron gate at the large chalkboard_. 'Opium Parlor Disbanded In Violent Police Shake Down'_. Jack had seen better, but the word "violent" was promising. With a few well chosen synonyms he could easily shape it into the scandal of the year.

The gates opened with a reluctant groan and the newsies poured in. Jack secured his customary front spot in line. Weasel was late again, giving him some time to check out who was in line and who shouldn't be. If good selling spots were hard to come by these days, making sure there were enough papes for everyone to get by was just as hard. The last thing Jack needed was for some little scab from another territory horning in on Manhattan's stock. However, the only thing unusual about today's line up was the fact that Blink and Mush weren't in it. But the familiar sound of Weasel's heavy breathing brought Jack back to the task at hand before he could dwell on it for too long.

"A'hundred papes, Weasel," Jack smiled. The large man behind the window didn't answer with anything more than a withering look.

"A'hundred papes," he shouted to the boys in the back, "I notice you're a few boys short today, Cowboy. What? Did they run away to find a better leader?" Weasel sneered unpleasantly.

Jack tossed a penny up into the air and caught it, "And miss one o' these pleasant pre-dawn chats?" He tossed the penny again, "I don't think so. Besides-"

"Holy fucking shit!" Jack was interrupted by Mush's choked cry. Hurriedly, he dumped his fee onto the counter and grabbed his papes from Weasel. Slinging them over his shoulder, he ran to see what Mush had discovered, although he already had a hunch. Race had to show up sooner or later.

Blink was standing next to Mush near an alley's entrance and a small crowd was quickly forming. Jack pushed his way through to front. What he saw made him feel vaguely sick. Blink was silent and Mush was babbling out an explanation.

"Blink jus' wanted to look around for Race, ya know? See if we could find any sign o' him. An', well, we found some blood on the sidewalk and it led here…" Mush trailed off. There was no point explaining the rest.

Jack slowly approached the body. His hunch was right. It was Racetrack and he had definitely looked better. His shirt was ripped and covered in dirt and dried blood. His knuckles were a mess, Jack noted, he must have really put up a fight. But the worst of his wounds were on his face. The boy was barely recognizable underneath the swelling and blood. With a cut above his eye and a bruise running up the whole left side of his head, Jack would have thought he was dead if it wasn't for the labored rising and falling of his chest.

"Jesus…" Jack murmured. He stared for a moment more. He'd seen friends beat up before, sure. It was common occurrence, especially for Race. Suddenly, Jack found himself getting angry. He had a rule about curfew for a reason and then Race refused to listen to him, so stuff like this would happen. He was probably walking back from that poker game, drunk and oblivious, with the wages of six other men in his pocket. Hell, he probably had it out in the open for any thug or mugger to see.

Conversation had begun to break out behind him. Most of them from homeless kids who didn't know Race as anything more than a passing acquaintance. I guess some of them had played cards with him before and were mumbling how he deserved what ever he got. One doesn't get as good at cards as Race without a few sore losers raising questions about your integrity. Jack took a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm his rising temper at both Race and the situation and then stood and turned to face the onlookers.

"Look there's nothin' ta see here! Jus' go and sell your papes! I know this ain't the first kid you've ever seen wit' a bloody nose!" He shouted at the crowd. His words came out nastier than he intended, but they did the trick and the group quickly began dissolving into separate groups or individuals, the spectacle of a fight not as alluring if the only thing left was a broken body. Only a few stragglers remained. Most of them veterans of the lodging house or people who had played cards with Race often and not minded losing to him.

"How is he, Jack?" Skittery asked from the back of the group. A few others echoed the sentiment. Race was well respected as a good friend to the people he trusted. And over the years the list of those people had grown. Jack had been on the list from day one.

"He'll be alrigh'," Jack said reassuringly, more for the sake of the littler kids than anything else. Snipes in particular, he looked white as a sheet.

"I don't think he's gonna be walkin' anywheres though," Jack continued. He glanced from Race to the onlookers, "Look, if any of ya can afford it I could really use some help getting' him back." As soon as he uttered the words various excuses and apologies rose from the group, blending into a guilty cacophony. But through that, a few boys stepped forward, among them Blink, Mush, Skittery and Snipeshooter. Jack had been wary about letting the last and youngest to volunteer actually come along. Snipes was small and not exactly strong, but the boy wouldn't be dissuaded. After the rest of the crowd had gone off shouting and brandishing their papers like swords, the five of them crowded around Race and gently lifted him. The Italian groaned slightly at being jostled, but the noise was reassuring. Mush even cracked a smile.

After carrying him a few blocks, Skittery laughed suddenly. Jack looked at him coldly. His anger over the whole affair no where near gone.

"What's so funny?" Blink asked with a hint of irritation.

"I was jus' thinkin' how this kid always gets off lucky, that's all," Skitts chuckled ironically. The rest of the boys just furrowed their brows in confusion.

"I don't see how dats so, Skitts," Jack said darkly. Skitts didn't seem to notice Jack's fowl mood.

"I'm just sayin', once he heals up an' all, he's gonna be a rich man. Nun's can't resist a kid wit' a black eye."

* * *

Wow, I'm kind of on a role here. Thank you so much for all your kind reviews! They really urged me to update quickly! So thank you! 

Next: Race finally wakes up. And Blink talks to Jack about Snipes odd behavior.


	4. Wake Up

It was still early in the morning when the boys arrived at the lodging house with Racetrack. The mood had lifted somewhat between them on the walk. Even Blink had shed his stoic demeanor and began cracking a few tentative jokes. Jack ignored them. He found it difficult to find anything funny about the situation.

Kloppman didn't look up from his racing form when they burst through the door. Jack did his best to get the rest of the boys up the narrow staircase without hurting Race anymore than he already was. He felt Kloppman's eyes on him from across the room. The old man was looking for a crack in his shell and Jack knew it. He also knew that, with small beads of sweat running down his neck and a pained expression on his face, it would be easy to find.

"He alright?" the old man asked in his gravelly tone. Jack nodded absently at him from his spot near the stairs. He waited a few moments to collect himself. Kloppman was good at two things, waking them up every morning and exploiting any weaknesses, usually for cash.

"He'll be fine, Kloppy," Jack said sardonically, "Nice ta know you cares so much."

"I like Race just as much as any of yous. But, ah," Jack smiled mockingly, knowing what was going the come next, "I don't know how bad he is or when he's gonna wake up, so before you alls forget, I'm gonna need his fee," the old man said plainly, "Short bit oughta do it." Kloppman wasn't one to beat around the bush and stuck firmly to the principle that there was no room for compassion when you needed to make a living, and Jack held a modicum of respect for that. But the respect only stretched to a point, a point that had been crossed when Mush found one of his best friends near dead in an alley. He scowled at the man, but nodded in agreement regardless and fished around in his pockets for the ten-cent admission charge. Kloppman grabbed it up impatiently and Jack lingered while the old man placed the money in the register, toying with the broken service bell that also sat on the counter. The weak dings grew tiresome quickly and it wasn't long until Kloppman seized the bell from Jack's fidgeting hands.

"What is it you want?" The old man said sharply. Jack looked up innocently, a sheepish smile playing across his lips.

"Yous got anything for cuts back there?" he asked with the mocking smile still firmly in place. Kloppman sneered at the boy's cheekiness, only making Jack smile wider.

"Sure, sure," Kloppman said with a waved of his hand after a moment or two of deliberation. As he turned, Jack started eyeing the still open register hungrily. He would have succeeded in borrowing a bit had he acted faster, but the sound of closing cabinets alerted him that his window of opportunity had closed.

"So," the old man said as he turned around after producing a brown glass bottle from his stores, "I'm afraid I'm gonna to need a few pennies before you take this anywheres."

Jack screwed up his face into a pensive frown, "How do I knows it's not jus' wata'?"

"Here," Kloppman held out the bottle kindly with only the slightest trace of a smirk on his craggy features, "give it a whiff. I guarantee ya, it ain't water."

Hesitantly, Jack reached out and uncorked the bottle. Unprepared for what would happen next; Jack he held his nose near the bottle's opening and inhaled deeply. Nevertheless, it took a few minutes for Kloppman to stop laughing at Jack's coughing and spluttering. He nearly dropped the bottle from the shock of the strong aroma.

"What is that?" Jack gasped after regaining his composure. His nose still felt a burning sensation after breathing in the vile concoction and he suddenly felt very skeptical that something as horrible as this could help Race at all.

"It's a tincture of iodine," Kloppman said as if it were common knowledge, which frustrated Jack slightly, "You just pour a tiny bit on a cut and it keeps it from going black and swellin' over." Jack furrowed his brow slightly at Kloppman's all too accurate description of an infected wound, and began gingerly examining the bottle. It seemed alright, if you ignored the smell that is.

"Well, alrigh' then," Jack consented before pocketing the bottle, "Thanks, Kloppy." The young man turned quickly and began making his way towards the bunkroom.

"Hold on, Cowboy," Kloppman said sternly, "That stuff's expensive. I believe we decided on about 2 bits for that bottle."

Jack looked affronted, "Yous said a few pennies!"

Kloppman shook his head knowingly, "You wanna go out and hunt down some o' this from an apothecary and buy it offa' some bloodsuckin' kike, be my guest. I'm given you a bargain," his voice developed a bit of an edge as he finished and Jack scowled, wishing now more than ever that he had taken advantage of the open register earlier.

"It's not like we's gonna use the whole bottle," Jack muttered to himself, counting out the change in his hand, "I hope Race's good for all this, cause it ain't a gift." Jack slapped the money on the desk, growling slightly. Granted, he wasn't going to be sleeping in the streets now, but he hated getting cheated and not being able to do a damn thing about it.

"Nice doin' business wit' you," Kloppman smiled smarmily. Jack just continued to scowl and mutter oaths under his breath ask he walked up the stairs. Maybe they had gotten Race up by now, although he doubted that even that could improve his mood any.

* * *

"Don't shake 'em so hard! Jeez, whaddya wanna do, break his other arm?"

"Calm down, Blink, I know what I'se doin'."

"Like hell, you do."

He could hear their words, they buzzed in his ears like a fly that wouldn't leave him alone. But in the end, his inability to tie the floating voices to any particular face made that fact useless. Besides, he could hardly remember what his own voice sounded like.

"So, any good news?" A deep, slightly lispy voice called. He was further away than the others, making his voice less piercing and more understandable. The name of its owner was on the tip of his tongue.

"Naw, Jack. Poor bum's still out like a light." A voice came from directly above him. The speaker snapped his fingers next to Race's ear for emphases. The resulting ringing was unbearable and Race flinched. Judging by the low clamor that followed, he supposed someone must have noticed. To his chagrin, the ear-splitting snapping was repeated a few more times. Race tried to think, despite the blaring sound that seemed to encompass his whole reality. He needed a name. What had the boy said? John? Jim? He was grasping at straws, but that was better than nothing. In desperation, Race chose the first name that popped into his head.

"…Vince?"

The murmuring stopped for a moment, only to start up again a moment later, this time with more hushed and hurried tones. Suddenly, Race felt pressure on his left arm. The pain was dizzying and he nearly blacked out again. The pressure was lifted quickly but the pain did not. Race's eyes were open now, though he couldn't comprehend the blurred shapes around him. Instinctively, his other hand flew to his arm but that only succeeded in worsening the already agonizing ache. Race began grinding his teeth.

"Snipes! What the hell didja' do!" one of the voices shouted franticly.

"I-I-I…" a small voice trailed off, only to start back up again with renewed vigor, "Look, he's stoppin'! Look!"

Race begrudgingly agreed with the voice. The pain was still there, but had dulled considerably in its intensity. His head was beginning to clear up as well and the shapes in front of him slowly focused. The first thing he saw clearly was Jack and Blink staring at him, each with an identical expression on their faces. Race would have laughed but, considering how painful breathing was, decided against it.

"Heya, Race," Mush said awkwardly, breaking the silence, "Uh, you okay?"

Race furrowed his brow for a moment. Was he okay? The pain in his arm, chest and head certainly said otherwise.

"Yea," he said tightly, discovering talking was almost as difficult as breathing, "I'm okay."

* * *

I know I said I would start chipping away at Snipes's story here, but it didn't really fit right. But at least Race is up and, well, he's up. Let's leave it at that. ;)

You know, I've always heard reviews are good for broken arms. hint hint

Also, a big thank you to Arlene2! It's quite rare that someone as skilled as her offers to beta your fic, but I guess I'm just that lucky. I really reccommend you check her out. She has three brillient Newsies gen fics that rank within the top 1 of stories in this fandom. Thanks Arlene!

Next time: Concerns over Snipes's odd behavior are adressed, along with questions about "Vince"


End file.
